Unshed tears
by Anini mouse
Summary: Natasha Romanoff doesn't cry. Ever. Mild Clintasha. One-shot (the picture is not mine)


**I was going to write something cheerful, honest! But when I put my pencil to paper this crapload of angst showed up. **

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.**

_Natasha Romanoff stares at the room in front of her and wonders what the heck is wrong with her. She blinks, and her eyes are perfectly dry. Because Natasha Romanoff doesn't cry._

She did not cry when they were thrown into a full blown firefight with no information at all, in a military bunker filled with explosives. No surprise there, she was a highly trained assassin after all, and she'd been in worse situations. (However, she did let out a string of swear words in Russian aimed at whoever was responsible)

She did not cry when they were ever-so-politely informed that the neither Hulk nor Iron Man were able to help them because said explosives were unstable and highly volatile.

She did not cry when she saw the sparks, telltale warnings of the unavoidable consequence, the explosion.

She did not cry when the promised explosion did come, a split-second after her warning cry, sending her hurtling backwards, or when her head hit the pavement hard enough to make black spots fill her vision.

She did not cry when her vision cleared and she took in the rocks and wood surrounding her and realized she was trapped.

She did not cry as she dragged Clint out of the rubble next to her and realized he wasn't responding.

She did not cry when she took his pulse, and found it, thready and weak, only to turn around and see the red stain spreading across the front of his shirt.

_She swears as she fumbles to check his pulse, practically praying that he's not dead. She doesn't make any sound other than a sigh of relief as she finds it, because it may be there, but that doesn't mean he's out of the woods yet. She leans back on her heels, ignoring the burning pain in her shoulder, because she has to know if he's okay before she'll allow herself to focus on her own pain. Her survey of Clint's wellbeing is not even begun when it stops, as Natasha realizes the front of his black suit is slick with blood and all she can think for a moment is, "Please, don't let him die"_

She did not cry when she took off his vest and cut his shirt open and looked at the raw red wound in his chest with a shiny glint of metal barely visible through all the blood.

She did not cry as she pressed a makeshift bandage to the wound to stem the bleeding and had to ignore a feeble moan of pain from her partner.

She did not cry for the entire four and a half hours she waited talking to her unconscious partner and hoping against hope that the others would find them.

She did not cry when they were found and she was told she couldn't go with him in the ambulance, she just went anyway.

She did not cry when his heart stopped, twice, on the way to the hospital.

She did not cry when they took him into surgery and she was forced to stay behind, his blood still dripping off the hands she hadn't had time to clean.

She did not cry as the rest of the team stayed in the waiting room with her for news on how Clint was doing.

She did not cry when the doctor stepped in, in his pristine white coat and she realized the look on his face was one of stoic apology.

She did not cry as he told them Clint, her partner, her teammate, her friend, had died on the operating table.

___She tries to run at the doctor, or so they tell her later, she doesn't really remember anything clearly past the words, "I'm sorry. He didn't make it." She runs at him and the doctor runs out and they have to hold her back and she fights to get free, wrenching her shoulder again, because she's kicking and biting and screaming at them. And then she's sitting on the floor and around her she can hear sobs but all of her mind is focused on trying to figure out how this could be true because he can't be gone. He's Clint. He's impossible to kill and she, of all people, should know that. No, he can't be dead. It doesn't make sense. He can't be gone. He just can't_...

She did not cry as she read the eulogy, staring out at a small crowd of black clothed figures, and she was probably the only one who wasn't. She even thought she saw Fury wipe away a single tear.

She did not cry as she walked home, or rather, back to Avengers Tower, the closest thing she'd ever had to one.

She did not cry as she rode the elevator up, because she was too tired to climb the seventeen flights of stairs.

She did not cry when she instinctively went the door that she always opened, to where nearly always slept, where she felt the safest.

_She opens the door and steps into the room and it takes her tired brain a few seconds to realize she has walked into Clint's room. She stares at the room in front of her and wonders what the heck is wrong with her. She blinks her eyes and they're still dry as ever and she spontaneously wonders if the stories people tell about her, that she is incapable of emotion, are true. _

_Because she doesn't cry, and instead she goes to a drawer that she knows holds a bottle of vodka and wrenches it open. She takes the bottle out roughly and something flutters to the floor. So she picks it up and turns it over and it's a picture of the two of them, her and Barton. They're smiling, with their arms around each-others' shoulders and she marvels at how happy they look. _

_And she still doesn't cry, she just looks at the picture for a long moment and nearly crumples it up but instead she places it gently in a pocket above her heart and thinks how Clint would grin if he could see her being sentimental and then that's it. The straw that broke the camel's back, because suddenly her breath hitches in her throat and she drops to her knees._

_And there, on the floor in her dead partner's room, Natasha Romanoff cries._


End file.
